FEET DON'T FAIL ME — o, practicing

[SLATESNARL]

❪ TAGS ❫ — It's been nearly three moons since Slate first stumbled upon SkyClan's borders. Who would have thought that one simple mishap, a wild mouse chase, would lead him right to his long-lost littermate? For the longest time, the Maine Coon had dwelled on the dirty streets living a solitary life, feral and desperate and fighting to survive. His parents were still huddled up in their cozy twoleg abode, unaware of their child's fate, while his siblings were living with their own masters being paraded around for entertainment. As Slate had come to find out, not all of his siblings had gotten the "happy ever after" that they dreamed about as kits.

Whatever the suffering and misfortune had occurred, it had led both of the siblings to SkyClan in one way or another. It was almost as if their reunion had been written in the stars, destined to be. As much as Slate often struggled to acclimate to the expectations and morals of clan life, he had to try his best to play by the rules. Slate couldn't lose Clover, not again.

Climbing was still a skill that Slate lacked; part of him was convinced that one had to be born among the pines to truly have a talent for breezing through the treetops like how leaves danced on the wind. Then again, Thistleback had a knack for it despite hailing from the streets himself. Maybe Slate just needed more practice.

Just like how he had rehearsed a couple of trials before, Slate loosed his grip on the trunk and slid (more so staggered) down the base before bunching his hind legs and propelling himself forward into Cloverjaw. If successful, the two would be sent tumbling down onto the ground, where Slate would roll onto his back and crane his neck in order for his gaze to find his brother's. "Er... how was that?" He got to his paws and shook his pelt free from dirt and pine needles. "You good?" The Maine Coon meows, padding toward his silver-striped companion.

// technically @CLOVERJAW 's intro! hehe​

 

[cloverjaw -]

TAGS — It had been a shock to Clover when Slate had stumbled across SkyClan. A lovely shock- but a shock nonetheless. After his less-than-pleasant exit from kittypet life, he'd given up on seeing any of his siblings ever again-- and yet here he was, with Slate at his side. Maybe he should've expected it after all. His brother had always been prone to daydreaming about the wild cats' way of life. He'd been much the opposite as a kit, but look at him now: showing Slate the ropes of warrior living. He's certainly improved since he'd gotten here, at least. Clover's proud. He's proud of his brother, but he's also proud of himself: watching Slate adjust reminds him (perhaps a bit sharply) of his own first forays into clan life. It's clumsy, but it's sort of beautiful, too. He thinks he likes this type of mirror.

Or at least, he does when he's not tumbling to the earth. Cloverjaw falls from his station on the trunk as Slate propels into him. Their tumble is less than graceful, but he supposes it doesn't need to be- they'd left beauty behind when they'd stopped being show cats, hadn't they? Cloverjaw struggles to admit his vanity, so he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he rolls back to face his brother, ears twitching as he asks for feedback. The silver tabby's honey gaze turns appraising: how was that, indeed. "Not too bad, Slate-y," Cloverjaw decides, rising to his own mist-blue paws. His fur is a tartan of pine needles. He sort of likes the smell, so he leaves them for now. "'M alright. Uh, maybe work on your sliding. But you can really jump, y'know." The warrior flicks his tail, amused. With practice he's sure Slate could get the hang of it. Though, maybe it wouldn't even matter if he's a little clumsy on the preparation. His brother and himself are bigger than half the cats in SkyClan, not to mention those WindClan weevils. Brute strength can carry bad technique to a certain extent.

The newleaf sun peers through the pine needles they'd just tumbled through. Cloverjaw points his attention back at his sibling. "Wanna run it again?"​

​

 

[TWITCHBOLT]

Markedly more flighty since Howlpaw's disappearance, especially after all of the search patrols had come up completely fruitless, Twitchbolt had decided he just needed a moment alone to calm down. Quillstrike's presence was as ever a comforting one, but- well, they couldn't always be together, especially not alone together. Thus, he'd ended up solo-hunting, taking a few moments in the treetops before migrating to the ground. Keeping his attention on tracking, it was the sound of rustling leaves and tumbling... bodies that snagged his attention. His head swivelled around so fast it was a wonder his head did not unscrew and go flying into the depths of the forest.

On the move toward the disturbance, the bicolour tom burst from the undergrowth only to end up buffeted by a fateful of what, for a moment, felt like pullet-fire thorns. Stumbling back, he screeched in alarm, falling to his haunches and swiping his paw over his face. "PFTTH- FFTH- what- what was that for-" Scent of pine needles- he opened his eyes, interrupting himself when he saw Slate and Cloverjaw- two older warriors- right in front of him. One of them was covered in pine needles- it didn't take him very long to figure out where his fateful of needles had come from. An innocent shake of the pelt, and he'd almost- lost it with Slate, who hadn't done anything wrong- almost called an older warrior a name like he was an apprentice pulling a prank!

"Shh-shells," a clumsy correction, "I'm- I'm sorry!"​

penned by pin ✧​

 

[sheepcurl]

Where trouble goes, Sheep tends to find herself following. A walk, skip and a hop away comes the lead warrior herself, brows furrowing from the commotion she had heard earlier. A slightly frazzled Twitchbolt and Slate and his Brother… Cloverleaf? No, Cloverjaw, Sheep thinks, but she isn’t the best at remembering every single name in Skyclan. Theres a small build up of guilt at the revelation.

“What are you two doing?” she’d crack a joke about how they were going to scare off all the prey in the area, but she decides against it at the last second as she moves to stand besides Twitchbolt. “Fighting in the trees? Always a good skill to have.” she nods, answering her own question from before. Truthfully, its great that Cloverjaw was around to… seemingly teach Slate Skyclan’s signature thing. Sheep herself thrived in the trees, and shes not quite sure about Twitchbolt, but she does know a lot of her fellow Skyclanners thrived there as well. She continues to look on with a curious look, giving each a nod of approval.

 

[SLATESNARL]

❪ TAGS ❫ — An outburst of frantic sputtering immediately catches onto Slate's ears and prompts them to perk up and swivel backward. The rotation of a thick neck follows, his eyes landing on a figure who certainly wasn't standing there before — Twitchpaw. Oh wait, Twitchbolt now. Slate didn't know the trembling fellow very well, but then again, he couldn't claim to really know anyone besides his littermate. Either way, the bi-colored tom appeared pretty flabbergasted from the spray of needles that the burly Maine Coon had produced, so all Slate managed was an awkward, "Erm.. sorry 'bout that." Twitchbolt had apologized as well, which confirmed the whole situation to just be a harmless mishap.

Another spectator had arrived, one of the lead warriors. Slate wasn't particularly well-versed with the high ranks aside from Blazestar and, obviously, Silversmoke. A bitter distaste finds itself upon Slate's tongue each time he sees a blatant accessory around another cat's neck like they belonged to the twolegs, but he swallowed it and decides to play nice for Cloverjaw's sake. It felt nice to train with his littermate, now both adults who were free from the grasp of the two-leggeds. The scarred male had a knack for ruining otherwise pleasant situations, so he decided he would spare this moment with Clover now if only for just this once. "Well, I think I'm better at jumpin' down than climbing up." Slate huffs in response to Sheepcurl, an unusual liveliness glistening in his amber eyes.

The former rogue listened as Cloverjaw made note of his performance of the trunk spring move — good jump, but needing work on the sliding. It surely didn't help that Slate was quite large; if he eased his claws too much then he'd end up plunging to the ground and knocking the wind out of his lungs. "Yeah, sure." He rumbled at the proposal of another attempt and headed over toward the trunk of the pine where Slate would scramble his way up to the lowest, thinnest branch once more.

The first step was to balance upon the branch. Whether it was due to peer pressure or some sort of wind gust, however, the heavy male began to lose his balance. "ShHhhit!" Slate exclaimed. Shortly after, his legs slid out from underneath him before managing to catch himself somewhat, his arms clinging onto the branch for dear life while his lower half dangled off of the limb. It wasn't so far up, but for a cat who was not yet used to heights, it was a daunting distance down. "Uhhh, what do I do now?" Slate mrowed, teeth gritting together as his claws outstretched into the wood.​